Years ago Ken and I were in Valentine, NE visiting his folks. We caught each others eye, the way couples do knowing that at least one person in the room is on your side, when the conversation turned towards the numbers.
We sat quietly smiling as Uncles, Aunts and parents talked about peoples pants size. “Well, Keith wears a 34/32 and Harry wears a 32/34! John is a 34/34 and Clare is 33/30.” Then, without a hitch the conversation went to Highway numbers. “Did you take the 14 and then south on 253?” “No, we take 154 and then to 25.”

On and on they went talking all about the numbers. Today’s temp — 75, but they predict 80, yesterdays 88, but in the morning 42.

Being at my dad’s house, the numbers are a huge topic as well. Only they are health numbers. Blood pressure, pulse, oxygen and PSA numbers are called out loud and often, like baseball scores, (which by the way are also talked about, along with football). Peoples age seem to be important as well. Roger is 92, Bun will be 90 in December. Dad acts surprised when he hears I am 58.

Life by the numbers. I suppose it is one way to measure a day. Here’s to counting the days before I go home!

My favourite time of day while I’m in New Mexico is just before sunrise.

The first thing I do is look out the window to see if there are any clouds. If the answer is yes, I rise right up and get out the door excited, because I know the sunrise will be fantastic. If all I can see are the last stars of the night, I take a little time before heading out. I go no matter what the weather is. Mornings are the perfect time for me to practice and enjoy a little quiet and alone time as the day begins.

Today was a cloudless morning, and I knew the sunrise would not be spectacular with colour.

I went down by the LA airport knowing that on Sunday morning, no one would be coming or going at that early hour. Perfect alone time. I took a short path that leads to an overlook. It’s just one of many great places I go for this ritual. And, as I walked the path in the still dark hours, I thought about how great it was to not be afraid. To be able to walk in the woods, in the quiet, by myself and have no threats to worry about.

Then I heard the coyote.

It was in the distance so I wasn’t too concerned, but my senses heighten, and I remembered my brother telling me that a bear tore up the garbage can at the house last week. Before I got to my spot, an owl hooted as I passed a tree, and the rustle of a horny toad scrambled in front of me on the path.

I maybe by myself each morning, but I am not alone!

I was happy to get away for a few hours and go to a quilt show at the church near dad’s house today. If I remember correctly, it was held last year at this same time, so I guess it is the local quilt guilds yearly show.

As I strolled around admiring the over 200 quilts on display, many caught my eye with the New Mexico theme they held. The work piecing some of these was to be respected. I even took photos of my favourites in order to spark ideas for any future quilts I might want to make.

Then as I continued to browse I had this odd sense of grief come over me, as I realized that not one quilt on displayed had been hand quilted.

Every quilt, even the small wall hangings, had been quilted by a machine.

Technology prevails, and hand-quilting, like type setting, has gone the way of the dinosaur.

Now, I confess several of the many quilts I’ve created have been machine quilted and I love them. My friend Jo Baner is a professional and did an amazing job with each. They are beautiful, unique, and lovely works of art. Jo is a talent, with a creative eye and uses a long arm machine, sometimes free handed, to make each quilt incredible.

Still, I felt a huge sense of loss as I looked at quilt after quilt at this particular show. All beautifully pieced together and no two designs the same, but for me, the machine quilting took away from the pieces and after a while they all started to look the same.

Don’t get me wrong, they were lovely. My guess is that, in this small town there are not a lot of machine quilters to choose from, so almost everyone had the same simple pattern used for the quilting. And, although each quilt was different in colour, size and design, they actually became boring to look at.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe it was the mood I was in — but, I felt a sense of loss for the art. I know when I left the show, I was more resolved than ever, to continue to hand-quilt.

Sure, hand-quilted quilts don’t have the polished, professional, quality that machine quilting provides, but even with my somewhat sloppy and uneven stitches, I prefer the hand-quilted story.

I liken this to reading a classic novel on an iPad when you could turn the pages of a hard bound book. Both have their place, yet very different feels. I left the show feeling I missed when the page turned on hand quilting and I walked backed to dad’s house feeling a little sad.

I wonder how many times I’ve written about letting go? I’d guess abut a million. And, if I’m not writing about it, I’m thinking about it, and it seems to me, I’m just this side of being able to practice it.

Why do I feel the need to control others around me? What voice of reason shouts to me, that does not speak to others. Why do I feel that I am right and they are wrong, that it is my duty and responsibility to grab on tight and shake and fist pump in the air until someone, anyone… tells me I am right, they are sorry, and now everything will change, all because I was tenacious enough and held on long enough for the world to finally come around to my side of things?

But that isn’t happening and it’s driving me batty! So in my eternal pursuit of a comfortable life and lessons learned; I will once again — try.

I am much better at letting go of physical stuff. The options with those are simple — sell, give or toss. What I struggle with are the old stories and resentments. What yard sale is being held for that kind of crap? Can eBay take my frustration?

I guess with the stuff I hang on to in my heart and really want to let go of, the only option I see is toss. It would just be mean to give them away, and only a fool would buy them.

So, here I am again working on letting go. Tossing out old ideas and old crap that does not serve me.

Today, I need to ask my family what day the garbage truck comes to the neighbourhood so I can be ready.

This isn’t my video, but this is what I get to do this afternoon.

I am sitting poolside in Albuquerque and wondering why I packed wool.
I guess living in the “frozen north” as Sandie says I do, I get brainwashed into thinking that towards the end of September it should be cooler.

Travel yesterday was as easy as any travel day can be. Hurry up and wait and then arrive safe and happy. Lorin and Kim picked me up at the airport last night and we talked into the night. This morning is free as I wait by the pool in Kim’s beautiful backyard for her to finish up a little work and then we can putz the day away.

On the agenda is nothing, except we know for sure that at some point I will get a green chile fix and sometime tomorrow I’ll fly up to Dodge and go on dad duty.

In the mean time, I’m staying in the moment enjoying the morning sun on my face and watching as my hair gets straighter and straighter in the dry climate.

My bag is packed and I’m ready to go.

I’m going back to Dodge tomorrow morning. It was just a year ago that I was there visiting my dad when he got sick, and since then I’ve been back to my hometown at least a half a dozen times.

I’m looking forward to eating green chile enchiladas and tacos, attending the church of the holy sunrise at lookout point, walking and walking, seeing my old friends Kimmie and Mike again and the Aspen trees change to autumn gold. I do love the environment of New Mexico.

My brother Art moved in with my dad last spring, and by doing so, Ken and I are not moving to Dodge like we thought we might do earlier this year. And BTW, we are happy to stay in Canada and grateful Art stepped up. Still, every body needs a break, so while I am there, Art will take some time off and go to Las Vegas for some R & R. I imagine dad and I will drive up to Angel Fire and visit my brother Bill and his wife Carol. I’m hoping Carol will bake a pie for me. She makes the best cream pies ever! I don’t know if I will see my other brother Ty or not. I’ll also be chief cook and bottle washer while I’m there.

The other reason I’m heading out is so I can attend my 40th high school reunion. Yup, it has been 40 years since the class of ‘73 graduated! I will say 30 of those years have been fantastic for me.

Our class had something like 360 kids in it. Most of them, like me, spent all of their first 18 years in Los Alamos. I’ll be curious as to how many come back (or never left). I am looking forward to this. Facebook has connected me to many and life changes have made it possible for me to participate with joy.

As I pack, I realize two things. One I can still fit into the same earrings I wore in high school, and that NOW I’m grateful I was fat in high school, so I can say that even though I’ve aged, I weigh the same as I did in 1973! Gravity has shifted the contents a bit, but today I am healthy, strong and comfortable in my own skin these days. Much more so than I was back then. I am grateful I am sober as well now, and will be able to enjoy the parties. I hope to branch out a bit and get to know some of my classmates that I didn’t hang around with much back then.

Our official class motto was, “On the whole I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” Class colours were glossy black and flat black. We didn’t not have a senior banquet, we donated the money to a Vietnam burn unit instead. I also know we chanted, “Marijuana, LSD – We’re the class of ‘73!” But I see on the schedule of events that there will be a golf tournament, a 5 km run, a tennis tournament and a dance. So I guess I’m not the only one who has changed over the last 40 years!

I’ll keep you posted.

I rarely see the moon and it bothers me.

Living in Tunstall Bay, on the west side of the island, and down in the trees; to see the night sky we pretty much have to stand on the patio and look straight up. But the real reason I don’t see the moon is because it shows up after I’ve called it a day. I am an early to bed, early to rise kinda gal and sound asleep when it shows up.

It’s just that when the moon is full, I feel a responsibility to at least look at the darn thing.

So, I feel a sense of relief when moonlight shines in our bedroom window, in the early hours of the day, usually between three and four in the morning, waking me.

On full moon nights, it shines so bright through the windows, that at first, I think someone turned on a street light or perhaps we left a house light on in the night. Then I remember, it’s the moon and my chance to see it. So, instead of ignoring it, rolling over, and continuing my sleep, I get up and go to the window. I get sucked into the gravity pull that the moon is famous for.

I feel if I don’t get up and at least look at the moon, I am missing something wonderful in life and that would be unbearable and wasteful. I feel that 

if the moon is generous enough to come to me, I can do my part, and get out of bed, go to the window, and look.

Once I’ve seen the moon, I am able to go back to sleep satisfied.

We have a Calvin and Hobbes book in the bathroom. It is a fun read and is the ever great reminder that Ken and I did a good thing when we chose not to have children.

Calvin would be the kind of kid, I think, most anyone would wish for as a person, but would be a handful as a kid. His imagination is so great and his disappointment in reality just perfect.

I love how Calvin, playing by himself turns into Spiff the Spaceman and has to battle the big gory monsters, that somehow always turns into either his mom or his teacher.

I bring this up right now, because we have Moser with us, and I think Moser and Calvin are cut from the same cloth. And as it turns out, I am the monster adult who is ruining his life!

Now, usually when we dog sit Moser, it is all fun and games. We play, “moose down the hall,” and “gimme that” We romp and go for long walks and if we are lucky we will run into another dog and they will play and play. But this time is different.

Last week, poor Moser was bitten by a small and horrible terrier dog over on Gambier Island when he and Marian were visiting friends. This was traumatic enough for a dog like Moser who just doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, or a harmful thought in his head.

But to add to the trauma, the bite was worse that anyone thought and when Marian brought Moser home from the vet, there were stitches, drains, bandages, medicines, cones, and procedures to deal with as he “heals”.

Then Marian left on a planned three week trip to Europe and handed us Moser with pages of instructions. No problem right!

Well, Moser has turned into Spiff the Spaceman.

I can’t blame him. He is certain that every time we need to change his bandage, we are trying to kill him. That every time he needs to take his medicine, we are trying to poison him and that when he has to wear the cone and all these hideous bandages, we are doing it just to humiliate him and he wants no part of it.

Moser has become Spiff the Spaceman and his duty in life is to eradicate the humans in this house or at least drive them around the bend. And as long as he has to wear bandages, cones and eat cheese filled poison, or until he feels better; I truly believe he will never surrender and only wishes he had a ray gun!

Not writing and not posting on this bloggy thing is a lot like not answering a ringing telephone. (Which I am also quite good at ignoring.) And yet, it haunts me. Okay, not actually haunts like I am scared or anything, but it crosses my mind often and everywhere I go I think of topics or ideas of things I could, maybe even should write about. Then don’t.

All practices come and go, or at least change.

Today’s, new found “practice” is shooting golfs! I am not interested in playing a golf game, but over the years I have really enjoyed going to the driving range with friends, and whacking the balls in hopes they fly.

I found a couple of clubs at the Tacky Shop on the island — $2. each, and bought two; a number 7 iron and a number 5 driver. Then I went out to the golf club here and paid $60. for 20 tokens! A token fills up a pretty good size bucket with the dirtiest golf balls I’ve ever seen and I am provided with a good 30 – 40 minutes of joy!

I even enjoy the whack when the ball dribbles off the platform because as Joe says, I peaked, (lifted my head too soon) and even when I swing and miss and even when the ball for some unknown reason sails straight off to the right of where it should be going. Still, there are times when I whack that ball just right and it sails high and down the middle of the range and well…. Bliss and satisfaction explode in me. Like a child, I want to yell, “Look at that one! It was great!”

Usually there are geese on the range too. They gather in a group and sleep or eat bugs, sometimes it seems like they are just standing around. I haven’t hit one yet — but I have made them lift their heads as a ball drops near by. Once I made one take a step and one flap its wings. It was great!

I suppose I shouldn’t say this stuff out loud. It’s right up there on par with not liking children, but oh well. I continue to be harmlessly inappropriate.

In other parts of the country, war, famine and floods are consuming the day. For me, right now I am not answering the phone and shooting golfs in the sun.